


In the Beehive

by ThatSoChangeableChick



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Bisexuality, Crazy, First Kiss, Gen, Inner Dialogue, M/M, POV Stiles, Running Away, Slow Build, Trapped, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSoChangeableChick/pseuds/ThatSoChangeableChick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, Stiles made a mistake and now something is trying to eat him, again. It's really not all that original. It's his birthday though and he really doesn't want to get eaten on his birthday. That's not mentioning the Grumpy H.Doug that just popped in to save his ass, and it seems like Wolverine has plans for his ass. Which is awesome because he has plans for Derek's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Beehive

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hi :D  
> I started writing this a few months ago and only now got aroung to finishing it. This is also my first and maybe last Teen Wolf fanfiction. Either way, I really like this story. Stiles is a dream to write :)  
> Hope you guys enjoy :D

The entire week was a farce, mainly because he knew – not suspected, or anything half-assed as that – knew his supposed best mate was planning a surprise party for him. Stiles hated surprises; he's had enough of those thanks. Not that he doesn't enjoy the odd spontaneous fleeing for your life because those are always good for the heart rate but he just doesn't want anymore surprises. And the 'surprise party' was the least of his surprises that oh-so-cheery-but-really-dreary-day. All in all, Stiles was not having any of it.

He knew he had a tendency to chatter over simplicities and could list more facts on male circumcision than even he wanted to know. But it was still no excuse for the rabid alley-wolves to use him as their personal toothpick. And no matter what his brain was telling him. He was almost 92 percent certain that none of that was his fault. Okay, more along the lines of 75 percent...well, 62 percent if you're going to picky about it. Which people usually are when it comes to him and his endless jabber,

"Here kitty kitty kitty, we're not going to hurt you...” and the earth was surly flat. And who the heck was 'we'? Oh blubber-snacker if there was another crazy she-wolf hunting him he was going to maul someone. Yes it had to be his turn to maul someone at some point. “Oh come out and play my darling, you smell so-” she licked her lips with an audible smack, and shit, yep those were his balls retreating into his stomach, “weak,” she cooed. Stiles rolled his eyes, his neck and daringly missed hitting his head on the stone walls.

Well of course he'll walk into her clawed grip if she says that. Note the sarcasm; if you can't than really save yourself before you get corrupted.

He steadied his breath because dang-it it was dark and cold, and everything was echoing and where the fuck was he? He had been sprinting from the rabid Carmen Electra – not really Carmen Electra, obviously, hang on- maybe it was but he just couldn't tell with all the running for his life. Was Carmen Electra a werewolf? It would explain how...what is the none offense word for sexy? Is there one? Is sexy even considered offensive when talking about a random stranger. Probably.

Not the time Stiles!

Okay, yeah, so he had been sprinting for his life, inconsequentially tripping over the perfectly flat cement and trying to scoop his phone from his pocket to call his werewolf buddy for back-up. He really needed werewolf buddy for back-up. The phone, of course, had tumbled from his flailing fingers and next he knew the heat of the growl was skimming his hoodie and he had bolted to the nearest shelter. The nearest shelter which just happened to look like some kind of metallic beehive with pipes along the stone walls, and was vacant and cold. With just enough glass on the floor as there was dew.

It was all very evil liar vibe, and Stiles just really hoped the warehouse wasn't an humongous beehive for metallic bees. It would really suck if that were the case. Or, maybe rabid Carmen and gigantic bee could battle over who would be the one to kill him and he could flee. Stiles liked that plan. That was a good plan.

No that wasn't a plan that was his stressed brain drawing awful conclusions: because if there really was a fat-ass bee around here, it would probably feel the need for human sacrifices and lead to lots of killing things and that would lead to trouble for the wolves. Which would mean his fragile human life in danger, again.

Anyway, it seemed that rabid Carmen was intent on playing death-condo game of cat and mouse, or more accurately, wolf and puny prey. Both Stiles wasn't very fond of. Well he had been when he was a kid but that had been like a long time ago. And Stiles really did not want to play. Just in case anyone was asking him, which of course they weren't but sometimes it must be said.

It was also his birthday, he was now legal. Like officially legal. But apparently rabid C had gotten it into her head that that meant it was now tolerable to eat him. Well sorry folks he's a bit too young, yes still to young, so everyone put their claws away because he wants not to fear for his life on his birthday. He also doesn't want to fear for anyone else's life on his birthday. It is totally okay for the supernatural world to just take a break on his B-day because that would be awesome.

"Oh darling we can smell your fear, so...” and came the supposed sultry pause which threatened to choke him, “alluring.” Okay that was it, his balls are never coming down.

What a way to start adult hood.

Forget it, forget it. He needed a plan. A good plan. A plan that wouldn't end in his innards being eaten. And his heart was thundering in his ears and did she really not hear that. Oh great, she probably did hear it and was prolonging the hunt. NO, no don't think about that. It's the walls, the walls are bouncing the sounds off everything. So the warehouse does have it's uses. Almost like a House of Mirrors, confusing to both parties and all the creepier for it.

The moon was already rising int the sky and it was throwing everything into a blue-ish icy white, it was also illuminating him to the metal pipes huddled in one corner. He sucked in a dry breath, tried not to burst his arteries – he still had use for them. And slowly stepped into a crouch, with an absolutely loud squeak of his new shoes. Wincing as if sucking a lemon he stopped, peering round the corner he was hiding behind to see some shadows moving in the toss and turns of the hallways.

Shit, he had to move now. He couldn’t with the shoes though, and sorry Dad they were great while they lasted but now, they're bait. He slipped out of them quickly, his socks sweaty and almost thanked god the floor was frigid but he really didn't want to do the Old Time Rock and Roll.

Stiles padded across the floor to the pile of pipes coiled like snakes. And stop with the similes they're not helping! Tongue between his teeth he ever so gently clasped the top rod and hoped to god they wouldn't make too much sound.

They did. The rod he had taken only appeared to be to top one, obviously. So in an angry hissy-fit the pipes clattered and screeched and gonged and Stiles was already fleeing like an adulteress' lover. In barely concealed panic, that was, and with no small amount of remorse. And also with a whole lot of hope to survive the night unmarred. Hope was always good.

There was a whoosh of air behind him like a fast skip rope something coach sometimes made them do. Course Stiles would always end up on the floor, tangled in his own rope and burns on his ankles – and this wasn't helping.

Just run. Stiles could do that. He was good at that. It was all he really could do in this time; that and be bait. He was good at that too.

"Come out, come out wherever you are,” she was grinning, and Stiles was skidding down the hallways, and why were they so damn long and narrow. It was freezing too, because this entire night wasn't enough there also had to be a chance of hypothermia to get the blood pumping. He was panting hot air which delighted to smack him in the face and close his throat. Stiles didn't even know how that worked – holy cramp, cramp, _cramp_ in the palm of his foot!

The pipe in his hands wailed banshee-like against the wall and since he was really well acquainted with what that sound meant it had him jumping twelve foot in the air – cramp! – and barreling into something.

It was easy to notice whatever it was was uneven, rigid and hard because his bicep was going to bruise like a setting sun. Instincts prevailing for once he swung the pipe in his grip with a manly yell of war and – the pipe stopped. Mostly because it snagged on the narrow wall – Stiles was going to find who did the architecture on this place and have him fired or something – but also due to the clawed hand clasping the steel.

He waited for death. He would greet death like an old friend because at this point in his life he and death had to be great pals. You could never have too many friends.

Wait a – that hand looked awfully familiar, and...so did that face. He breathed a sigh of relief, “thank god it was just you dude, you don't underst—wait,” his lips twisted brows pulling up, “why are you here?”

Derek – or Mister Grumpy Hound Doug – yanked the pipe from his jelly arms and glared at him. All pretty eyes trying to burn his face off and rearrange them. “Because I missed your voice,” aww, and there came the stab of uncomfortable heat. Grumpy H.D. shoved the pipe back against his chest, why was Derek giving it back, he had just stolen it. “Why do you think? I'm saving you...” he snarled then paused, steadying Stiles with an incredibly pointed and frustrated look “again.”

And because Stiles can't control his mouth to save his life, he says: “and you're just a big fuzz of love H. Doug.” Derek pauses from his sniffing and bestows his attention on Stiles. Stiles is really focused on how scratch-able Derek's stubble is, like what is his actual stubble color because he thinks he see's flecks of ginger in there. He shakes his head, grinning briefly and almost plowing the pipe into Derek's chest with his flailing. A sheepish look on he asks, “so what's the plan big bad?”

Derek's lip twitched upwards – they don't just move one-way, today is just a day full of surprises – as he clenches his stubbly jaw and takes a deep sniff of the air. Stiles ignores the shiver that goes down his spine. He doesn't know what is wrong with his body. He already knows he's a bit fucked-up up there, but please not down there too. He has plans for down there. “How did you get marked by an Omega, Stiles?” Big Bad's tone is no joke, it's more pissed off then usual and Stiles allows himself a bit of guilt before throwing his hands up in innocence. Course he almost takes Derek's head off with the pipe but really the stink-eye he gets for that is incorporated into Derek's usual visage so it doesn't deter the bullshit coming from his mouth.

"I was minding my own business on this joyous day of all days – it is my birthday you realize I'm officially 18 now, well almost I think I have like another hour or so. What is the time?” Grumpy-Stumps is not amused, if anything one eyebrow has curved upwards as if to handle the bullshit.

Stiles deflates and sighs heavily. He glances at stubble-face quickly to realize the eyebrow has still not come down. Oh god this is how the mighty have fallen, to greenish eyes who make his stomach sink and raised eyebrows which stop all the lies in his throat. Stiles hates this. And Derek will never find out.

"I was at the latest crime scene-” the sound which escapes Grumpy-Stumps is not welcoming, and his body doesn't welcome it at all – when he gets home Stiles is going to talk to his downstairs about his life choices. “Well, we both know how these recent murders haven't been animal attacks, so I was looking around for something that could get us a lead on to who is doing the murdering.” He swallows, “and that's sort of where things go wrong because next thing I know I'm being snarled at and chased, and believe you me, this is not the way I wanted to spend my eighteenth birthday. Or any birthday for that matter,” hands in his pockets and pipe on the floor he does his best to look disinterested.

And it really could have just been a regular Tuesday but this was his birthday, and there should be a no eating Stiles on Stiles' Birthday rule.

Stile's is so not looking at Derek's face right now, he doesn't want that picture in his conscious. “How did you get marked Stiles?” his voice is hard, rigid and wow, uneven too. Is everything about Derek hard, rigid and uneven? And where are his thoughts going right now? Does he want to know? He doesn't know.

Stiles shrugs pointlessly, yeah because making it seem like a little deal won't get over the fact that it is a pretty big deal. “She kind of laid a trap for me, or anyone I guess who was going in that direction cause...” he tilts his head and bares his throat, trying not to notice how Derek's eyes narrow in on his vein and gleam. “I think she nibbled me a little, just enough to make a mark, and then she let me go..” he shrugs again, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets to curb the urge to touch it.

It kind of burns but Stiles is good at ignoring things until they become too annoying.

Derek's nostrils flare, he snuffs as if something is hurting his delicate nose, and Stiles knows he stinks but that is because he has been running for his life. Derek's wolfy nose is gonna have to learn to love the smell of teenage sweat. Stiles is surprised he hasn't already with all the teenagers he lurks around. And that is a tad bit creepy, and completely expected. Hang on, “What are you doing here? You know not that I'm ungrateful or anything but I hoped we were past the stalking me phase.”

Derek growls like the eloquent wolverine he is, sniffs the air once more and shoves Stiles in the shoulder. “Move,” and well that was reassuring, and answered all his questions and future questions. Really.

Stiles stumbles down the narrow hallway, stalk bubs flickering overhead. It's all very abandoned asylum or abandoned walk-in fridge. He is tripping over his own feet a bit too much, peering down empty corridors only for Wolfy to shove him forward. And that was just bad manners. “We are heading back outside right? To your car, which I don't think I've mentioned is a very bad-ass car.” Stiles tilts his head back, grinning. “Can you tell I'm ass-kissing to get out of here?”

Wolverine clenches his stubbly jaw, eyes flashing crimson beacons momentarily. “Sheesh,” he faces forward, the adrenaline already wallowing away. Stiles kinds of misses it to be honest.

Stiles pauses as the hallway ends, opening up into this wide arena big enough for lion matches. With cracked machines perched off to the sides, rolls of rubber limping from atop them. Yep, still creepy. “Are you sure we have to go through that, it's kind of in the open,” he gestures. Derek breathes in heavily, in a very 'I can't believe I haven't murdered this puny human yet' way.

Stiles finds it oddly reassuring. Okay when he survives this not only is he having a talk with his downstairs but also with dead center because his whole body is now fucking with him and he doesn't like it. His body does, but he still has some common sense. And doesn't; like it, that is.

Gloom and Doom plows forward into open spaces as if he were taking a walk in a packed shopping mall. If Stiles were to do that he would probably be dead already. So he chases after Derek because he is not being left alone in this fun house. “It's cold don't you think,” he glimpses at the melted remains of a machine, “and creepy.”

"Shut up,” Grumpy-Stumps mutters, nostrils sniffling the air. His frown becomes more pronounced – which is something one tends to notice – and snarls, picking up his pace to the wide doors. Wide doors which are imperviously locked, bolted and chained. Stiles is aware enough to feel his hope wither away into mold. Derek shoves at the doors, clenching the chain before releasing it as if burned. He clenches his fist, shakes his hand and growls, “wolfsbane.”

Stiles plods forward, heart beginning to hammer again. He is going to get a bad heart like his dad isn't he? He yanks on the rustic chains, only coming away with burns on his fingers. “Shit,” Derek looks over at him, jaw working and hang on, is he actually worried. “What type of werewolf uses wolfsbane?” he whispers. Defeating the Omega hunting him suddenly seems like a more daunting task even with Big Bad and Muscular here.

Derek stares down, obviously thinking and resembling a wet puppy more by the second. Stiles really likes puppies. He hangs out with Scott so people should know he isn't against puppies but he wants to make it clear now that he really like puppies. Puppies are cute, and even when the do something annoying you love them. Wait, what was he thinking about? “Come on,” Derek whispers, nodding his head to the opposite hallway.

Stiles sticks close to Derek's side because come on, the dude's a furnace and it's freezing. The dude also has claws and fangs, so when being chased by lunatics it always best to have some on your side...And that was a Stiles life lesson for today, on staying alive when the world has gone bonkers. “You know a way out of here?”

Derek remains a tower of silent muscle so Stiles starts speaking, “If there isn't we can always use a window, there are some higher up, which I know you can jump to but remember weak human here. A piggyback ride would be good,” Derek deigns this with an amused/constipated look. A look Stiles is getting more frequently to be honest, “you know while you do your wolf thing and leap over mortals range of motion fifteen feet in the air.”

He waits for the recollection but all he receives is the constipated purse of his lips intensifying. Stiles narrows his eyes at him, “are you trying not to laugh?” And shit, Derek's eyes are glittering freckles of scarlet and his lips are not just twitching up but tilting up and staying there. Like as if Grumpy-Stumps is actually capable of smiling like a human being, only it's better because it's Derek and he had freakish werewolfness which makes everything he does 42 times better, and hotter. Scott didn't get that though, or Boyd, maybe Isaac, and Erica was definitely getting close. And now Stiles is grinning like a lunatic, and he knows it's not that pretty but he can't help it.

Stiles takes in the sight and swears to himself he is never going to forget it. Because Derek's eyes are gleaming when he smiles, his lips doing this odd half curve as if he is thinking 'this odd little human is funny', and Stiles is good with that. He's better than good with that.

Than Derek freezes, tilting his head to listen to something far away. All Stiles can think is _oh boy I'm in trouble_. It's only because of the adrenaline and the constant saving each other; it's a very potent mix. A mix he is going to stop thinking about.

It helps that Wolverine is in death con 4; grabbing his bicep and yanking him down the narrow hallway to hopefully a less claustrophobia inducing space. He hears a snarl which is definitely not Derek's which spurs him faster, galloping over stray pipes and wires and broken parts of machines. He doesn't even know what type of machine it is but all he knew it's existence is pointless and they should never have been made. There should never be a factory for something so pointless.

He skids around a bend, Derek almost plowing into him only to catch them both with those excess muscles of his. Stiles glimpses at him and just keeps running because he had an Omega on his tail with a flare for wolfsbane and Derek protecting his back. He's going to give them both a fighting chance. This hallway is wider, their footsteps thundering alongside the stones bathed in moonlight. Derek snuffs, wincing as a smell hits his delicate nose. Stiles wants to call him a number of names, “There is something wrong with her scent; it's not...I can't place it.”

Oh, it's not because he is being prissy, and now Stiles is feeling like garbage as he is running for his life. Again. “Let's just get out of here,” he pants, and it's not sexy. Nothing he does really is but he could use every boast of confidence he can get right now.

H. Doug nods, Stiles skids round a corner and drops to his knees just in time “Duck!” he hollers, as Derek attempts to do just that and rabid Carmen has flown through the air and landed right on Derek's muscular mass.

Derek slammed the ground with a gnarled snarl, his upper body disappearing under the mane of unkempt locks and spitting, snarling mass of Carmen. Derek's curse breaks off into a yowl and he is bucking like crazy, trying to dislodge the Omega but she manages to pin the Alpha down somehow.

Stiles is shaking, it's the adrenaline he guesses. He grabs a pipe from another huddle – and really what the fuck is this place? – weighs it in his hand, glimpses back on the beast tearing Derek's face off and charges. The pipe crashes into the mane with a heavy _dong_ and for some reason it reminds him of a Scooby Doo episode and rabid Carmen in falling off Derek and hobbling to the ground clutching her head.

Stiles eyes the whimpering wolf, the pipe dented and bloody he drops it. Derek scoots closer to his side breathing shakily. Stiles can barely recognize the remains of his clawed face. “Fuck Derek,” his breath is harder to find and he thinks he maybe having a panic attack. Derek lifts up a scraped arms, the wounds sealing up with a sickening squelch. Stiles ducks around it, falling to a knee and watching in morbid fascination as Derek pushes his scarred jaw back in place. Said scar reminds him just a bit too much of Joker. “You didn't lose an eye right?” he is joking but he doesn't feel like it. One of Derek's eyes is swollen badly, he is spitting out gallons of blood and something is wonky with his nose.

There's just so much blood, all over his face, which is usually the last thing that gets injured. Stiles had guessed because even the people fighting Derek don’t want to ruin his pretty face. Rabid Carmen obviously did not feel the same. Stiles hates rabid Carmen.

Derek's swelling is finally going down, his skin melting together over his cheeks and blood squirts out of his right eye. He hides it behind a clawed palm, teeth gritted. “She's just an Omega,” Stiles thinks aloud, disbelief in his voice as he eyes the whimpering mess of limbs, crawling and muttering to herself into the corner. “Completely insane but an Omega,” he turns back to Derek. He wants to help in someway, his fingers are twitching to just reach out to support him but Stiles doesn’t think Derek appreciates any touching so he stills it. And it's difficult.

Derek spits out blood just as Carmen straightens bionically to full height. Stiles is calling himself many names for not having a weapon with him at all times. He reaches out for the huddle not to far away as Derek staggers to his knees, blinking to get the blood from his vision.

There is no way after everything they have lived through they are going to get killed by some crazy Omega.

Stiles snags a pipe just as the Omega swivels to snarl at them...the pipe nearly tumbles from his grip and his stomach convulses. “Holy fucking hell...” he breathes, as Derek flexes his claws beside him.

It takes a while for his mind to comprehend but Rabid Carmen had another face. As in there is another face attached to her face. And Stiles knows about Siamese twins but this is just fucking terrifying. The faces are different, warped into two different violent pursuits. Both gleaming ice orbs but one is licking her lips as saliva drips down her jaw, and the other is gnashing her teeth as if trying to latch onto his jugular.

Stiles likes his jugular. Stiles dares not glance at Derek but Rabid Two Headed Carmen isn't moving. It's waiting and he has a sinking feeling he knows what for. “It wants us to run,” the left face growls as if cackling to the moon. His spine freezes.

Derek clasps his bicep – again – shoves him further down the corridor. “Run Stiles,” Stiles does just that, in fact he sprints, Derek jogs behind him and Stiles knows he can go faster but he isn't because he is protecting his back. Stiles puts on a burst of speed, galloping over some ropes and tripping over some more clanging pipes. He calls himself many names in his head again, heart hammering.

Derek nudges him when a secondary fork comes into the hallway, Stiles nods and heads down the darkened path. He rounds the corner that leads to the outscoring corridor. Moonlight is beaming through the half-wall windows as if this should be fucking funny.

Stiles is wheezing, face contorted with the need to process air he is not getting. Oh god he wants an inhaler, like now. He collapses against a wall, Derek following suit as he palms all the blood from his cheeks. Chest heaving he asks as quietly as he can, “you all healed up?”

Derek is panting, he shakes his head touching a wound above his eye which slashes across his nose. Both of their heads are thrown back against the wall, Stiles more so in attempt to get much needed air in his lungs. Derek glances at him, “how do you get into these messes?” he tone has no small amount of wonder and irritation.

Stiles knows he is wrong in the head so he shrugs, lips already grinning, “just a talent I have I guess.” Derek actually snorts, and the world is ending. Here he is running for his life and he is actually having a semblance of fun. He is so fucked. Stiles clenches his brows, mouth still wide, “how are we getting out of this?” He opens an eye to peek at Derek who is staring off at something below him. “She shouldn't be that powerful should she?”

Derek raises his bright gaze to his eyes, face caked with drying blood as the wound atop his head squelches to a close. “No, she shouldn't.” Derek shifts, muscles pressing against Stiles' side as he turns his face and sniffs the air. “There is no human in there anymore,” he comments.

Stiles rolls his eyes, finally able to scoot further up the wall from where he had slipped from lack of lung capacity. He really should request new ones at this point. It's obvious these just aren't going to cut it. “Didn't think so,” he mutters. Stiles smiles because it suddenly become apparent to him that Derek is right there and isn't openly scowling at the world. He pats Derek's shoulder, “thanks for being here dude.”

Derek's lips are twitching again, but it doesn't seem like he wants to try the constipated look this time which is grand improvement. Probably realized it won't work anymore. Ten points to Stilinski. Stiles sucks in a breath, “when do you think it's safe to go back out there?” he asks because apparently he is a masochistic sonovabitch. Derek bestows him with a look which seems to show how much he also thinks Stiles is a masochistic sonovabtich. Stiles rolls his eyes, leaning over Derek to peer behind the corner. Not a shadow in sight. Probably doesn't mean much though.

Stiles falls back carefully, palm splayed across the wall for support. He is still breathing heavily when he says to Derek, “There's no one out there we shou-” and abruptly he realizes how very close he is to Wolverine.

Derek's looking up at him, well his chin to be specific, freckles of scarlet in his irises. Not that he was looking or anything; just grungy forest and scarlet are a really striking combination and Stiles can appreciate that. Anyone could appreciate that.

The thing is Derek hasn't turned big bad and pushed him away. Why isn't he pushing him away, Stiles is thinking. And then Stiles brain gets this really terrible notion that maybe Derek doesn't want him to push away. Honestly Derek should be threatening to rip his throat out with his fangs by now.

Stiles drops his eyes to Derek's lips and yep, still got that fickle stubble surrounding the softness and this is Derek. Stiles should...Derek's mouth opens ever so slightly, Stiles sees tips of fangs and the glimmer of a wet tongue and really that was just plain cruel. Stiles can't stop himself because at that moment it is no longer just Derek, this is something he had wanted to do for a long time and he presses his lips to something smooth and warm.

And yep, those are lips, Derek's lips and yep, when he turns his head slightly their lips straggle for hold and he's prodding his moist tongue to Derek's upper lip and it's downhill from there. Blissful, heart drowning the noise, flashes of heat over his skin when Derek curls a palm to his jaw. Stiles won't name the sound that comes from his throat at that.

Stiles pulls away because he suddenly realizes oh shit this is Derek Hale he is snogging, and would really like to snog some more and why did he stop? Snogging is such a promiscuous word isn't it? Stiles is never going to stop using it. Right now though he is going to flail under the sunburn worthy heat of his cheeks and settled onto his ankles. “I-um, I...” for once he really doesn't have any words.

Stiles isn't going to apologize, Stiles isn't going to ask Derek if he wants him to apologize. He maneuvers so he can throw an arm round his knee. It's not a comforting mechanism, it isn't. And Derek hasn't said anything, not that Stiles expected him too, but usually his face speaks more than the shocked disposition it now finds itself in. Stiles kind of likes it actual, like a goldfish really just with more puppy eyes. “I didn't break you did I? My dad says if I break it I buy it.” Stiles blinks, as some realization begin lurking in Derek's eyes, “not that you're broken or anything. I was just you know referring to my lack of prowess in the making out department. Not because I'm bad at it, but if I am I can totally improve, just that I haven't had a lot of practice and I'm going to shut up round about now.”

Great, he was talking about his dad and his lack of romantic and sexual experience after kissing _Derek_. It was as if his body just wanted to humiliate itself more. More to the point shouldn't they be more worried about the rabid two headed Carmen wanting to slice and dice them for her midnight salad. Stiles shouldn't forget the homicidal manic when said homicidal maniac is still alive and the big bad.

Stiles was always a bit off point but he thinks this is now a new low and “god say something please. Or at least move your face, just—yes, yes that's better.” Derek is frowning at him again and Stiles grins because thank god something familiar. Not that everything hadn't been awesome, just roundabout now he wants something familiar. Sure Derek's eyes are little bit wide, his brows a little bit tilted and shit he looks so vulnerable and he doesn't even realize it.

Stiles smiles crookedly, settling down by Derek's side again and leaning against Derek's stiff form. “I didn't kill you did I?”

Derek snorts suddenly, sitting up from where he had began slipping down the wall. Derek furrows his brows in a more pensive manner than an angry manner, staring absently at the moon filtering through the trees. “I've never done that before,” Derek murmurs in the end.

And Stiles can only stare at him oddly, squinting as if he could see the lie, “but you've been with people before.” Stiles says before he can stop himself because he really shouldn't be reminding Derek of the chick that went psycho and set ablaze to his family. It's not something that should be connected to making out with him.

Derek just nods, and Stiles blinks at him wondering where Derek had lost his brain at. And hang on did he make Derek do that? “Not with a guy though,” he murmurs thoughtfully eyes still lost in the moon and thank fucking god because Stiles toes are flushing from his mortification.

Stiles fidgets, scratching his buzz cut and straightening against the wall. “Oh, fuck I'm sorry, I didn't – I wasn't really thinking, I guess. I didn't – well, shit.” Stiles is just going to have to bury himself alive to get rid of the epic fail. It just seemed right and Stiles has never had any boundaries. Of course he would think that everyone else sees exactly what he sees. Which is hotties from both playing fields, and has he just snogged someone who doesn’t see him that way at all? Yes, apparently he has.

Stiles should probably bolt, you know just in case Derek really does mean something by all those threats and throw downs on vertical surfaces. And no, _no_ Stiles stop thinking about surfaces because not everyone sees people the way you see them and you just snogged Derek, straight Derek, as in completely straight Derek and already traumatized Derek.

Derek shakes his head, lips undecided on a smile or a grimace and _please, please lord let me live_. Derek's eyes lift lazily over to Stiles, “It was...good,” he admits softly, and yep, sign his obituary because his heart is now the Tasmanian devil. He can't get enough of Derek's face. It's open and soft round the edges, as if Derek decided to take a break from his sourness and face clenches. Ah Bangladesh, Stiles didn't need his heart anyway, he didn’t think he could want to soak someone in as much as he wants to with Derek.

Yep, he is no longer called Stiles instead it is sappy bastard. Oh and isn't that such a bright moon, what a fine night. He isn't thinking about anything, he isn't hot under his collar and his toes did not curl. No; this is _not_ a lie. His brain just needs a little break, just to comprehend what he's done now and what Derek said just now, and what that means and please let it be what he thinks it means.

Derek exhaled heavily, begrudgingly scenting the air, “Come on.” Derek stands, peering round the bend, sniffing some more. Way to kill the mood Sourwolf, then again, there is a crazy-ass werewolf wanting to slice and dice him. He can’t believe he's thinking it but maybe just this once Derek has the right idea. He picks himself up, fingers touching his tingling lips unconsciously. Derek glimpses at him, orbs flashing – Stiles' hand clamps to his side – and stalks away down the corridor. Stiles smothers his comment about that, quickly trailing behind Grumpy-Stumps and not trying to hard not to focus on Derek's ass. “Stop it,” Derek hisses, pushing him forward, palm staying just a bit longer then necessary on his shoulder. Or was he imagining that, Stiles hopes he wasn't imagining that.

Stiles grins, quickly trailing off at Derek's heels because Grumpy-stumps has the slip-on claws. Derek stands, peering round the bend they had squandered at in case two-faces Carmen decides to storm past. Stiles nods; he had momentarily forgotten the monstrous Omega who had nibbled him earlier. Great job Stiles, it's a mystery how you haven't already been murdered.

Derek guides them through the narrow hallway, Stiles tripping over the air and loosely splayed rope. In amidst this flailing he stumps his big toe and only with great control and silent damnation does he persevere through the painful times. During his muted hobbling attack, Derek stares at him caterpillar eyebrows raised and lips twitching. “I'm glad my pain amuses you,” he hisses while his toe shrivels up and dies.

The stone floors are frigid, and it'll only be a matter of seconds until his toes lose the battles to frostbite. On the other hand they will probably be running for their life in ten seconds, which is always a good way to get that ole temperature rising. Derek ambles further down the corridor, muscular shoulders all ripped and wound up, “Move.” Informative as always Derek, thank you.

The moon blinks through the windows. A big fiery mess has constricted on his ribs. Derek shots him an unreadable glance over his shoulder, nose still tilted to the air. Stiles checks behind them, repeatedly perhaps. In an obsessive compulsive manner might be the more accurate term. “Stiles,” Derek chest rumbles. Stiles really needs to get his body responsive actions corrected because in no way should that be anything more than fear tickling his spine.

“Oh just get us out of here,” he whispers, nodding violently further down the hallway which is in the process of forking. Derek stares at him a while longer. Stiles had almost forgotten Derek's lack of understanding of privacy, and yes staring at his mini meltdown doesn't assist anyone. Stiles nods a few more times to get his point across: exit that way, go Hound Doug, go!

For some reason Stiles thinks Derek is amused. Stiles gets it, he is very amusing but being an asshole doesn’t help anyone.

Stiles keeps an eye on their backs while Derek scents the passageways. The shadows they bypassed look much creepier suddenly. Derek taps him on the shoulder and they follow the left passageway. Of course it is smaller than the others. Stiles narrowly misses an upturned screw (that is a safety hazard!) with much squabbling. Stiles balances on Derek who gives him that constipated constricted face. Stiles pats his back once, because well he was already holding onto godly muscles and he doesn't want to abandon them just yet. “Thanks buddy.”

Derek microscopically sends him a look which states 'you are bullshitting me', instead he says, “don't call me buddy.” Aah sorry, Stiles forgot this was the 18th century England; _Derek shall only be called Mister Hale, and anything less is offense to his prosperity_.

Derek halts as moonlight beams into the darkened hallway, Stiles asks “what is it?” because Derek is blocking the majority of his view with his trapezius'. Very firm trapezius' by the way. Derek continues forward, straight into another wide, open, moonlight lit area. Stiles feels himself stutter, he glances behind him at the deserted hallway and sprints to Derek's lumbering mass. “The doors are unlocked,” he points out, poking Derek's biceps as they cross, Stiles still swiveling his head to clear all their blind spots. Which are most of the spots present.

Derek grunts a response. Still a response more than he would usually be getting, so Stiles removes his fingers. It's on that daring second that the fire nation attacked. If only, no, instead they didn't get attacked but two faced mother monster did decide to howl and shriek and snarl and let off other wolfy noises which begged Stiles' to mutilate himself to just get it over with.

As the wolfman he is, Derek crouches low, a clawed hand shoving a flailing Stiles behind him, his low growl already a wavelength in the air. Mother Monster cackles as if she's just snorted helium. Somehow, as if his brain has realized how very fucked up everything is it begins to really ache, like you'll need to swallow the entire pill bottle ache. “Oh, this is bad,” he says, because he hasn't stated the obvious in the last three seconds.

"Not know Stiles,” Derek growls, nose to the air and sniffing out Double Trouble with the expression of someone who is very pissed his life is in danger again. Stiles, himself, is more terrified, but you know, to each their own. It's just he got into a situation that could have been avoided, again. And it's to batshit insanity with double the mental instability and double the furry mindset, like at some point it's got to stop. There are only so many times things can get worse than the disasters they start off as.

Stiles whips around as a dark figure sprints at the corner of his eye. Leaning back against Wolverine to mutually cover their blind spots, and also if he is going to die, he's going to go down feeling something divine. “I really don't like this,” he murmurs again, because no one asked Stiles input but he is giving it. “Like I really, really, really, really, really, really, don't like this,” his voice does not crack into a whimper at all.

Derek leans back, teeth gnashed he bites out, “shut up Stiles.” Big Fuzz of Love is rigid, wound taut and the edge of exhaustion is apparent. Stiles swallows thickly and thinks he should really shut up round about now and pay attention to his nearing demise.

A wailing ball-shriveling shriek claws the air, Derek grunts shielding his ears and scrunching his eyes shut. Oh perfect timing Sourwolf Stiles thinks, as he uses his lacrosse prowess to butt Derek aside, which looking back is an awful decision. Four Eyes sprawls on top of Stiles, exactly where unassuming Derek had been seconds ago. All this mutual saving each other was a great adrenaline rush + turn on, but Stiles would much rather his life not be in constant danger.

Stiles curses, claws pinning his wrist to the frigid stone. Pain whirling through his vision from the smack-dunk down on his head. Shit he needed those brain cells. Four Eyes shrill cry wails higher, the face craving his organs as ornaments plasters her tongue to her flecked crimson fangs. Fuck that is old blood in there. Stiles bucks, trying to wriggle loose as a fangs snap at his cheek.

At this point his rated life span is probably in the minuses, but he does not want to be eaten. It's like his least favorite way of imaging himself dying. He'll take nearly every other method of death over being something's midnight taco. Stiles had decided long ago that his preferred cause of death is 'Overdose of Sex'. Hopefully this sex would be with Derek because Stiles is a sap for the ole Growly, and Stiles is so very close to making his dream a reality. So don't be so cruel world. Don't be cruel, well, don't be crueler...specifics.

Quite abruptly the space above him is clear, and his dirty wrists are slashed. “Fuck,” he straggles back and up. The crimson gathered and twirled delicately down his wrists tickling his elbows. "Fuck no," he curses again, snatching a old sheet from atop a machine, ripping slits and wrapping them around his wrists. Stiles could do this, he had once dressed up as a mummy for Halloween. All he had to do was tie the knot on the slit, tightly. His breath hitched, "oh shit that hurts," and was the blood supposed to drain so quickly, he was having trouble moving his fingers. Stiles tightened it with his teeth, keeping half an eye on the werewolves having a hissy fit by the machine over. There is god awful squelching going on and Stiles is grateful Derek's healing so quickly because to an average human those organs would have fallen out already.

Stiles needs to act now because this is his fault. And it's been decided, the Jury has called it, from now on he is loading up on wolfsbane pellets, no leaving the house without a pack of 17. "Stiles!" Derek growled, tossing something a few feet to Stiles' right as Four Eyes crouched over Derek's chest and tried to shake his brain from his ears.

Oh fuck, get a fucking grip Stiles. He grabs the object Derek had tossed; it was his phone. Derek slammed a hand on the machine, gabbling for a hold to reverse his and Carmen's positions amidst all the snarling. Derek's idea was suddenly very clear. And oh it was a brilliant, brilliant plan that probably wouldn't go wrong. Stiles could do this. He could do what is needed to be done to get Derek out of here in one piece because he has plans for that body, and Derek of course. He was such a shallow, selfish person.

Oh well, not the time to debate his life choices.

Stiles snaps the cover off Derek's phone, scoops out the battery alongside his muttered curses and 'come on, come on already'. Derek roared, slashing a large gash on Two Faces arm. Stiles does an inner cheer. He skids under Carmen's whirring feet, the beast was in dire need of a pedicure, and snatches up the machine's cable. “Almost, almost,” he snaps the plug off the cable and starts yanking the wires inside like a Christmas cracker. Merry merry fucking Christmas to him and Derek. Stiles can't feel his fingers, and the gashes on his wrists are still leaking. Hey, he needs that life fluid.

Carmen snarls, clawing for Stiles' bowed head. Derek roars, slamming her on the machine in a most violent and non sexy manner. It won't take too long to snap free all the wires but he can't see what he's doing, there's just too much blood on his fingers and his vision is going black, and he really, really needs to sleep. “Stiles!” And he's up, blinking rapidly and yanking off the final wire.

"Fuck yes,” he hisses, twirling the metallic ends in on themselves.

"Now Stiles!” Stiles steadied the wires to the interface of Derek's phone battery, the machine whirred to life with a shock and cackle of blue light, and with it the chainsaw on top screeched on, slicing right through the strategically thrashing head(s) on the surface. Rabid Carmen shrieks.

There is a sickening clash, which will star in his nightmares, and a lapping rip, which will also have a main roll in there too. The machine dies down, crimson blood streaming off the sides, as something rolls off the top. It's the head, one of the fucking heads had rolled off. “Fuck,” he swallows, scampering backwards as Derek retrieves his claws from inside Carmen. And not in the naughty kind either but in the 'you dead' kind.

His hands tremble in his lap, and he can't pick them up to cover his face. “Stiles, look at me,” Derek insists. Stiles can do that, Derek is so pretty that he can do that. It's not hard, and hopefully all that blood on his face is Psycho Bitches and not his. Stiles likes Derek's face. It's a good face; he's eyes are very bright though, he should do something about that. Derek yanks him onto his feet, flinging Stiles' arms around his shoulders and is he.

"I haven't had a piggy back since I was twelve big guy,” he chides, without really doing that at all. Derek keeps one hand over his soggy wrists, and Stiles starts feeling really queasy as Derek moves them to the exit. “I think I'm going to throw up,” he alerts, trying not to move on the arm Derek is using as a chair under his ass. If it were a different situation he would be imaging all the amazing, talented things that hand could do near his ass. Right now he's feeling a little short.

"Not on me,” Says the big fuzz of love. Stiles bows his head, and nods into Derek's neck as the hit the outside air. “Stay awake Stiles,” he jostles him further up his back. It's only blood-loss, Stiles will be fine. He's survived up till now, and he's not going to die just when Derek starts looking at him like that. Nope, sorry, and it's also not going to be bittersweet and he'll die anyway because he got what he wanted in the end. No, he hasn't got what he wanted which is an infinity with Derek and his puppy face. Stiles really likes puppies, “Are you crying?” he asks, alarmed.

"No,” he sniffles, glimpsing at the whistling trees not too far away. It really is a nice night out you know, despite the near death experience, just a regular Tuesday. “Hey Derek,” when was the last time he'd called Derek 'Derek' to his face? A question for another time. “What time is it?”

Derek exhales, and Stiles feels bad because Derek also got injured, course he's healed up by now but still. Re-esembling your innards subconsciously must have been exhausting. He glances up at the almost full moon and huffs, “It's about 11:30.”

Stiles grins weakly into Derek's previous mentioned perfect trapezius. “So, wait a second, let me get this,” Derek immediately sighs at his upcoming tone. “We kissed,” because they had kissed and it was magical. Stiles pokes and fiddles with Derek's blood-drenched collar, “When I was still a minor.” Stiles is too tired to laugh so he huffs, “I didn't know you were into jail bait.”

Derek exhales as if the world is on his shoulders but from Stiles perch on his shoulders he can see the faint smile on his perfect lips. “Conserve your energy Stiles,” he retorts without really doing that at all. “Here,” and woaw, when did they get to Deacon's street?

"Derek?” His eyes are very heavy now and he really wants to carry this on because he likes Derek. It also might be because he has this small irrational completely stupid-ass notion that the whole good part of this night was made up so he wouldn't feel so shitty about his actual birthday which involved much attempts at mauling.

Stiles' eyelids are red, and cold air is puffing on his back. “I'll be right here when you wake up,” Derek, because only he can have that perfectly soothing, calm and collected, and still concerning voice. Yeah, Stiles likes Derek a lot.


End file.
